An Evening on Molly
by Malikah
Summary: Molly is frustrated after she finds out her so-called "boyfriend" from IT has only eyes for Sherlock and she decides to cross the line - for the first time in her life. / Sherlolly / rated T for language and content


_Hello everyone to my new Sherlolly oneshot. I hope you like it, though it turned out to be a little darker than planned. forgive any mistakes, I'm writing this on my cell at three in the morning._

**_Disclaimer:_**_I don't own Sherlock. _

**_Warning: Rating T for language and topics._**

_(I hope the rating is appropriate, I'm never quite sure.. and just to make it clear, in __**no case**_****_am I glorifying the usage of drugs of any kind through this fic. I __**do not**____support it and I hope you can understand Molly's train of thoughts. If not, well... Just know that I don't support it myself.)_

**An Evening on Molly**

_You're such a bore, Hooper! _

_Always nice and proper, it's so lame! _

_No one's ever going to want you, you swot! _

_And just look at that body, a child in too big baggy clothes, it's pathetic! _

Their taunting and mocking had always gotten to her, though she constantly played it off as though it was unimportant, yet when she laid awake at night, she thought back to the spiteful words and remarks, her chest tightening and her eyes tearing up. Yes, she was Molly Hooper, the nice and proper bore in baggy clothes.

And she was the youngest pathologist in London.

Their words meant nothing. They _should_ mean nothing. But she couldn't bring herself to forget them, couldn't help but stop to think about how it could have been, may have been, if she weren't the swot they all thought her to be. For years after High School she had pushed those thoughts into the back of her head, intent on ignoring them altogether, proud of her achievements and her career and unwilling to let their taunting affect her any longer, but now the thoughts and memories were re-awakened, now when she was confronted with the boring image of plain old Molly, a woman nobody's interested in for her own sake, no, just to get closer to _him._ Her nemesis. Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. Everything she did lately seemed to revolve all around him, but his attention laid elsewhere - probably _because_ she was plain and a bore. As opposed to Irene Adler, who was as exotic as it gets, a woman with the ability to catch the detective's attention, which incensed the pathologist quite a bit.

To the point that after this horrible Christmas catastrophe, when she finally got his attention - before of course being interrupted by that annoying woman's erotic moan - she decided to cross the line by doing something reckless and out of her comfort zone. Something plain, nice Molly never would have the guts to pull through. But Molly Hooper, the reckless, border-crossing pathologist wouldn't back down, no matter how much she knew that this was absolutely wrong. She had always been proper, never did a bad thing, she had seen what happened to others. Every day she is confronted with human stupidity concerning this issue. The bodies of her patients should've been enough to stop her.

And yet she was convinced that she needed to do it. Or maybe it was just the bottle of wine speaking. The wine commanding her to dress up and go out, in search of what was going to lift her spirits at last.

And she made a find.

Not wasting another second on contemplating the issue - which in hindsight would have spared her a lot of trouble and embarrassment - she gulped the pill down, followed by downing the drink in her hand before she made her way onto the dance floor, the loud techno music and her alcohol induced dizziness numbing her senses, lowering her ability to coordinate properly, but she didn't mind. Not, when she was finally being reckless and bold, stepping out of her comfort zone. Not, when she was finally indulging in something she denied herself all her life. Not, when she realized the incredibly dazing effect it had on her. But maybe she should have, when she bumped against a man, spilling her third drink or so. Maybe she should have, when she closed her eyes and found herself outside of the club on the ground with heels in hand as soon as she opened them again. And maybe she should have, when she stumbled her way to the one place she definitely should _not_ be visiting in her current state and at that hour. But she didn't, because tonight, she wasn't ordinary, calculating and thoughtful Molly. Tonight she was daring rebel-Molly and about to give her nemesis a piece of her mind - something she would undoubtedly regret the following morning.

Stumbling up to the door, she rang the bell, standing on her tiptoes and rolling back onto the balls of her feet repeatedly, unsure whether she was at the wrong house or just reading the tag wrong. Shecock Hornys. She giggled. Well. That sounded wrong. When nobody answered the door, she rang the bell once more, before she decided to just keep ringing until someone opened the door. She eyed the familiar wood and saw the door knocker, which was hanging askew - something Sherlock had the habit of doing, and she had to giggle again - just at the sight of it. Putting her cheek against the door, she eyed the golden door knocker closely and kept her finger on the bell, listening for any sounds inside the flat.

She did, in fact, hear noises inside, as well as a cacophony of insults and swearwords, which made her giggle harder as she added the slight banging of her head against the wood to the sounds with which she tried to lure the detective outside.

"Bloody... Hell... Stupid John and his dates. WHAT THE HELL, JO-... Molly?", she heard him cussing, his voice coming closer, but she couldn't stop giggling about the rant coming from the usually serious man's lips, so when she started to get dizzy from all the laughing, she just leant her head against the door, not realizing until it was too late that aforementioned man was opening the door. Thereby making her tumble inside... and right into his arms. She crushed into him, her hands automatically clutching at his clothes as her face was buried against his chest. She felt his hands on her shoulders while she was disoriented, blinking slowly as she felt the silky material covering his chest against her cheek, smelt the clean scent of soap with the tangy quality only a man's scent possessed and a slight but obvious waft of tobacco. Her heart raced like Hell and her breathing was fitful. She inhaled deeply, snuggling her cheek further against his body, content with being pressed against him, even though moments before she all but wanted to start a rant as soon as she saw him. She has never been this close to the detective before and she doubted she'd ever get another chance, so despite her blurred mind, she used her chance and enjoyed the feeling of his warmth and proximity, ignoring the obvious stiffness of his body and his aversion of holding her closer than necessary. She didn't care. She just enjoyed this rare moment of proximity. Well, at least until the man in question chimed in, interrupting her pleasant musings.

"It is almost three in the morning. You smell of alcohol, cigarettes and cheap perfume. The attire you donned tonight is tantalising and much more form-fitting and revealing than you're usual clothing." His hands on her shoulders pushed her back and her head fell down, her chin resting on her chest, before he took one of her wrists, while his other hand pushed her chin up so that he could examine her. She felt incredibly tired all of a sudden.

They stood there for a few moments, him eyeing her intensely, before he sighed, running his hand through his hair and tugging at her wrist, beckoning her inside impatiently, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like her name under his breath. He shut the door behind her and led her up the stairs, her steps were wobbly and without his help she might as well have fallen down. He wondered how she managed to come here in the first place.

He led her onto the couch and she fell down on it, her skirt riding up a bit and her hair lying around her head like a halo. Not wasting a second, he went into the kitchen in search of a clean cup, pouring water into it and handing it to the pathologist lying on his couch.

"Drink this." He commanded harshly, before he marched off and out the door. Molly watched him go for a few seconds, dumbfounded at the fact, that he would just leave her all alone, as she realized he was gone and she jumped into action. But before she could get even close to the door, it opened again and back he came, her high heels - which she had apparently left at the door - dangling from the tips of his fingers, his face a stony mask.

He saw her standing next to the couch, filled glass still in hand and he lowered the heels to the floor. "I told you to drink that." He rumbled slowly, anger shining in his blue eyes. She huffed.

"Y-you don' get to tell me 'nything, misterr.", she drawled, putting the glass on the table, yet not without spilling some of it's content. "'n I'm not thirsty 'nyway..." She stated looking at him, a grin spreading her lips. Well, that showed him. He wouldn't order her around anymore.

"Listen to me: You are going to drink that, Molly Hooper." He closed in on her intently, yet she all but ignored the dangerous spark in his eyes.

"Nu-uh, I won't... A-and you better listn to me, H-holmes!", she raised a finger in the air, stumbling up to him, her glazed eyes fixed on him. "You're not gonna tell me what to do or who to date, y'know? So maybe my choice wasn't quite the best, still doesn't mean y'have to rub it-"

Before she could continue her rant, the detective had stepped closer and caught her raised hand, encircling her wrist with his long fingers. "You have tachycardia, arterial hypertension and you do not feel thirst." He narrowed his eyes as he watched her closely. "Your pupils are dilated and you have tachypnoea, the increase of your respiratory frequency as well as hypothermia. All of those are caused in the course of your consume of the drug MDMA, also known as Ecstasy or - ironically enough - Molly, though I'm sure you took it in the form of a pill, not pulverized. It was your own decision to go out and take it, though I'm at a loss as to why you would do this, seeing as you witness victims of drugs on a regular basis in the morgue and you don't gave the slightest history with intoxicants." He mused out loud, his deductions fast and accurate.

"Y-you take 'em too." She huffed, trying to wrench her hand from his grasp to cross her arms for emphasis, but his grip was strong. "You can't blame me."

"The high is wearing off." He noticed, not even bothering to respond to her statement. "The drug caused a state of temporary euphoria as a result of the monoamine neurotransmitters serotonin and norepinephrine being released. The empathogen effect of MDMA is still noticeable, as you seem to be more open than usually while confronting me, though it might also be caused by your apparent indulgence in alcohol. Yet that incessant giggling has stopped" - she hadn't even realized that she had been still chuckling while lying in his arms - "and you're obviously in a bad mood. Must have been some four to five hours ago that you consumed it, the effects should wear off within the next two hours."

She listened to his explanations but in her state she didn't understand half of what he said, nor could she bring herself to try. All she understood were the angry thoughts suddenly running through her mind, going on a rampage as she decided to finally speak her mind.

"Y'know what, Sherlock? Why don't you stop _your_ incessant ramblings for once?" She stabbed her finger into his chest, looking up into his eyes irritated and full of anger. "You're always talking and talking with no end in sight and no boundaries to hold your tongue. You deduce, blame and hurt people with your words spoken in ignorance. You push people away from yourself, yet they always seem to come back, don't they? You despise people with "normal" brains and don't ever miss the chance to tell them, and yet they never stray too far away. John, Lestrade even Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. You're nothing but rude to them, and all they ever do is nod and close their eyes in light of your misbehaviour. But who am_ I_ to talk about them when all I ever do is follow your orders like some puppy? I close my eyes. I have been closing them for as long as I know you, trying to win your approval and your attention, but it is obvious that that's impossible. After all, even my so-called "boyfriend" only ever had eyes for you. Sherlock Holmes, the great, heartless iceblock bastard of a detective!"

Her breathing became hectic, the words tumbled out of her mouth, which was incredibly dry and she felt as though she was burning up. Raising her hand to her racing heart and heaving chest, she took a step back, lowering her head as she tried to control her breathing.

'_And those would be the entactogen effects of the drug_', Sherlock thought, his eyes losing their harsh edge, before he grasped her elbows to steady her, watching her cautiously before he slowly put an arm around her waist, tugging her with him and towards his bedroom. He pushed the door open and led her inside and onto the bed, helping her down.

"Calm down, Molly." He murmured softly, putting his hands onto her shoulders, sinking onto his knees so he was at eye level with her. "You have to drink or else you will suffer dehydration. Your temperature is high and you need to calm down. I will get you water and something to lower your temperature. You just lie down and calm yourself." He commanded, pushing the comforter to the side so she could lie down beneath it. When she was lying on his pillows and underneath his blanket, cheeks red and eyes closed, he sighed and stood up about to leave the room as he heard her murmur.

"Why? Why are they always leaving me...? Always..."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing her way but soon he noticed her words were spoken deliriously, her eyes closed tightly and her lips parted slightly, hands clutching the comforter. She looked pained yet innocent. Turning around decidedly, he went out in search of the utensils to help her back onto her feet, ignoring the slight stinging in his chest area, inflicted by her words, blaming him for her current state. Of course she never openly said it was his fault, but she implied it repeatedly and he didn't like the fact that he could bring her to go to such lengths to gain his attention, even though she didn't even have the need to do it. She had been wrong. Maybe he did misbehave - alright, he definitely misbehaved - but she would always hold his attention. Maybe she never noticed, because it was just his way of dealing with unwanted fits of sentiments, but he did care for her. And not just as someone to bring him body parts. But as someone to help him when he was in need, listen to him and just be there. Of course he couldn't admit that out loud. He was Sherlock Holmes. _He didn't do sentiments_. But as he walked back into his room and watched the sleeping woman in his bed, he came closer, putting a wet towel onto her burning forehead, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face tenderly and pulling the blanket up under her chin.

"I won't, Molly Hooper.", he murmured, sitting on the floor in his sleeping robe, reclining against the nightstand, leaning his head against it and raising his eyes to the ceiling, while his hands were pressed against each other under his chin as he drifted into his Mind Palace, one thought rushing through his brain. "I won't leave you."

_~ the end ~_


End file.
